


Do You Wanna Get Down?

by cheshirecatstrut



Category: Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: Exhibitionism, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Ridiculousness, Sex on a Car
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-22 00:28:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11368785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheshirecatstrut/pseuds/cheshirecatstrut
Summary: Veronica's found Dick's stolen car, but she needs help to retrieve it. Logan just happens to be available.





	Do You Wanna Get Down?

Veronica hugs her navy-blue hooded sweater tighter against the early-morning beach-chill, huffs on her hands to warm them before ringing Dick Casablancas’ doorbell. The neighborhood is silent in the pearly-grey light of dawn…last night’s party-goers have likely flaming-Dr.-Peppered themselves into comas. But Dick’s not answering his phone, and this development won’t wait. If V doesn’t act now, Dick’s precious car will be across the border within hours, well out of her (admittedly considerable) reach.

She rings again, calculating the odds of rousting Wallace from bed on Saturday against his ability to intimidate large criminals. On one hand, Wallace trains teams of hormone-riddled teenagers to work well together. On the other, he’s not much bigger than Veronica…and she’s what they call large-personality-petite-package.

Abruptly the door swings open, and what an amazing coincidence—it’s Logan Echolls, reliable bell answerer, and spectacular grand finale to her Friday-night vibrator fantasy. At first she wonders if he fell in the pool—his grey nylon track pants and white wife-beater are SOAKED—but then she realizes it’s SWEAT. He’s up at six a.m. WORKING OUT. She can see muscles twitching beneath the drenched cloth she didn’t even realize EXISTED.

“Well, hello there,” he says, with that soft-eyed smirk, a study in salty-sweet contrast which feels irresistible. “Veronica Mars, early bird. I was hoping our paths would cross today, but I assumed you kept business hours.”

“Ran into trouble.” She ducks under his arm, scanning for signs of his roommate. Logan’s pheromones engulf her as she strides into the den; she wants to bury her face in his chest. “Can Dick be roused?”

“If he were reachable, possibly.” She turns to find him gazing down at her, like he’s hungry and she’s cake. “Unfortunately, no such luck. He and his crew took the yacht to Catalina last night, and I just found his cellphone in the kitchen sink.”

She crosses her arms, perusing his bulging everything, and the calculating look in her eyes makes his grin broaden. “Are you…sizing me up?” He crosses his arms in mirror, balancing one shoulder negligently against the wall. “And if so, what’s the verdict?”

“Just how intimidating ARE you?” she asks, thoughtful. “When you choose to be?”

“People generally mess with me once. Or less,” he says, gently. “I assume there’s someone you need intimidated?”

“Sean Friedrich stole Dick’s car,” Veronica informs him, making up her mind. “With the assistance of a professional thief named Ed Rooney who has anger management problems. My friend and I were caught trying to liberate said car from the perp’s garage last night, before he could deliver it to a customer in Tijuana. There were words exchanged and also…shotgun blasts. I need backup capable of immobilizing him, while I locate and liberate the keys.”

“I’d ask whether you’ve called the cops.” Logan straightens from his lean…grabs a towel from the side table, which he uses to wipe his face. “But this is Neptune, they’re probably getting a cut. I gather time is of the essence?”

“Based on the call we overheard, the meeting is at noon.” She stares while he rubs terry over his clavicles, wishing he’d let her help. “So yeah, can’t dawdle.”

He pats the center of his chest dry, watching her watch, and says, “Got it, speed counts. Give me five minutes to shower and dress, then I’m yours to do with as you will.”

“Promise?” she says, meeting his gaze. This time his smile is slow and dirty, and agrees to basically anything.

“You can take it to the bank.” He winks and strides off across the living room, drawing his tank over his head. And Veronica, who never thought of backs as an erogenous zone, realizes his seems to be hers.

Seriously, the Navy ought to videotape this guy’s fitness regimen and sell it on iTunes. They’d make enough to build five new battleships.

She paces and waits while distantly, the shower kicks on, then paces and waits until he reappears, wearing a brown Top-Notch Burgers t-shirt and an ancient pair of jeans. He sits to lace on Nikes. “If I bring a weapon and discharge it, I could get in trouble,” he says, meeting her eyes directly. “But I own one, if you think it’s necessary.”

“I’m hoping to catch this guy literally napping,” Veronica says, with a quick negating head shake. “But he’s large and somewhat unhinged. You’re playing the role of ‘be-muscled gentleman who’s good with his fists’, if and when things get fighty.”

“Well in THAT case…” he stands and gestures for her to precede him, waving a courtly arm. “My car or yours?”

“What do you drive?” She follows him out the front door, watches him meticulously lock up. He activates the key fob in answer; lights flash on a convertible that matches her sweater, parked with foresight along the curb. “Mine,” she decides, with a moue of regret. “We’re headed into a bad area, and yours won’t blend.”

“A Saturn,” he says flatly as she unlocks her doors and gestures with her head for him to climb in. “YOU drive a ten-year-old Saturn with a dent in the side.”

“Hey, it’s practical.” She executes a quick U-turn and speeds back up the street, in defiance of neighborhood limits. “Also inconspicuous. What’s wrong, does this ruin my tough-girl image?”

He eases the seat back as far as it will go and shifts, seeking comfort. “I doubt even a Barbie collection could,” he says. “But sleek, black and deadly seems more your style.”

“Ah but that would be advertising my secret weapon to the masses,” she says, which makes him snort. “In this car, with this face, no one ever sees me coming.”

“I’d see you.” He glances sideways, the faintest suggestion of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “In fact, I plan to watch VERY carefully.”

She feels the blush spread over her entire body, but turns her eyes back to the road. Veronica Mars, voted ‘most likely to rip your heart out’ in her Senior-class yearbook, struck dumb by suggestive banter. She knows enough about Logan Echolls, after two hours of can’t-sleep Googling, to be unsurprised he’s got this much game; but the reality of having it directed her way is, frankly, exhilarating.

“How do you feel about parking garages?” She turns left on Solanas and spares him a brief glance. “Or hotel rooms, or empty stretches of desert?”

“We’d need plenty of water for that last one.” He relaxes into his chair, the smile breaking loose. “But generally, I’m in favor.”

“I’ll file that information away.” She pulls over one block down, two back from Rooney’s grimy duplex and kills the engine. “All right, hot stuff, crack those knuckles and get in the zone. Or your roommate’s early mid-life crisis will lose its most conspicuous accessory.”

“Yeah I think the ten-years-younger reality-show contestant he almost married has the car beat in that capacity.” He levers himself out of the car, flexing his left hand like he’s taking her seriously. “But he keeps the lights on and the bills paid while I’m floating around in a can, and lets me use him as my emergency contact. So I guess I KIND of owe him?”

“Maybe you just like to punch things?” She leads the way down the sidewalk, across the lawn of the neighbor to the rear. “Based on the alacrity with which you agreed to help me?”

“Or MAYBE,” he suggests, falling in behind her, a reassuringly large presence at her back, “I have a soft spot for little blondes with attitude who stand up to nutcases. Goes with the penchant for apple pie, Veronica. And FREEDOM.”

“I feel like the Star-Spangled Banner should be playing in the background,” she murmurs, ducking behind a hedge to study the darkened duplex. “Good, no lights, he hasn’t started moving around yet. I guess the Immobilon’s still working.”

“You DRUGGED this guy?” He follows as she creeps up to the window, peers inside. Yep, Rooney’s still crashed…on a mattress on the floor with no sheets, which is a level of sub-hygiene from which her mind shies.

Gingerly, she tests the window. Locked, so she removes a glass-cutter from her bag and positions it over the latch. “Sort of. When he came after us with the shotgun, I hit him with a couple tranq darts. But we drove off before they took effect, so I wasn’t sure he’d go under.”

Faintly, behind her, come the sounds of suppressed laughter as she cuts a clean circle in the glass and reaches inside. She slides up the frame, then hoists herself over the sill; smirks as his giant hand covers her ass and gives a helpful boost.

Veronica lands in a living room that hasn’t seen the sun or a Swiffer in years. Old pizza boxes and fast-food wrappers litter every surface, and flies crawl across a plate of chicken with a suspect smell.

“Ugh, and I thought powdered-eggs-day stank.” Her erstwhile protector hops lightly down behind her and dusts his hands fastidiously. “I’ll be bummed if fried food is ruined for me.”

“Suck it up,” she says, beckoning as she backs down the hall. “I need you to roll this guy over without waking him, then search his pockets. That’s where he stuffed the keys right before he dove for his gun.”

“Wonderful.” Logan tucks thumbs in his belt loops and follows her lead. “If I’m lucky enough to earn more than one date, can I expect rolling anesthetized lowlifes to be a regular thing?”

“Now I can’t tell you that and still preserve an air of mystery.” She cracks the bedroom door, peeks inside. “But if you’re looking for a knitter who sings in the church choir, you’ve latched onto the wrong girl.”

The fetid lump on the mattress doesn’t stir, so she swings it wide. Logan eases past, putting a hand on her shoulder to halt her progress--approaches the fallen colossus and nudges with one toe. Rooney grunts, shifts, but doesn’t wake; so Logan kicks him onto his back, then hunkers to perform a startlingly efficient pat-down.

“Bingo,” he says softly, prodding the right front pocket. Frowns, as he reaches inside…which of course is when the perp jerks awake.

With a roar, Rooney rears up, orange hair and beard snarling in every direction like a deranged orangutan, face rage-flushing to match his bulbous nose. He bolts upright and Logan goes over sideways, hand still trapped in the pocket, shoes scrabbling for purchase on the filthy floor.

Veronica grabs for her stun gun, extracting it with some difficulty from her bag while Rooney kicks Logan, hard enough despite his drugged state to draw forth a grunt. But she’s underestimated the dirty-fighting skills of America’s Hero. He throws a wad of grimy laundry in Rooney’s face, delivers a brutal rabbit punch to the nuts as it’s batted away. Then rips the pocket to get his hand out, and brandishes the keys.

Rooney staggers sideways, yelling, “How? Who?” and yanks at a Hooters t-shirt, affixed to his hair by what looks like old pudding. Crashes into the door’s edge and ricochets onto Logan, who lands one bone-cracking punch before skidding on a burrito wrapper. They both go back down, luckily in opposite directions; Veronica stun-guns Rooney between the shoulder blades while Logan fights free of moldy towels.

“Got him!” she calls as Rooney shudders and goes limp. Logan hauls himself upright, flicking away a washcloth with distaste. “Help me tie the guy down, he’ll only be out for a minute!”

Logan uncovers an old rug decorated with a snarling tiger; kicks off assorted debris and rolls his limp adversary up, while Veronica uncovers bungee cords in a box of greasy tools. He smirks and winds them around as Rooney begins to twitch and mutter, then gestures for Veronica to follow him out the door.

“Where’s the garage?” he asks, heading at top long-legged speed for the front… she has to scramble to keep up. “Those cords won’t hold, we need to get out of here stat.”

“To your right,” she says, and he switches directions. “We tried to access it from the yard and hotwire, last time, but there’s a German shepherd back there, and not a friendly specimen. Hence the return trip with a tranq gun, which I must admit, came in handy.”

He flings the door open, exposing rusty chemical detritus and Dick’s gleaming red Maserati. “Of COURSE there’s no automatic opener, this guy’s a savage. Start the car while I shove that thing up, then haul ass for the Taqueria Arandas we passed on the way down. It’s closed for repairs, you can park in the back lot and wait—I’ll grab your Saturn and meet you there in five. Then we can stash this at your place ‘til Sean and friend get theirs.”

She hands over her keys, and Logan threads through cans and boxes to the door, muscles gleaming in the gloom as he puts a shoulder into shoving. A crack of sunlight appears and Veronica guns the engine, smiling appreciatively at the finely-tuned growl.

With a final heave he gets it open, and Veronica backs into early-morning brightness as he steps aside to dust his hands. She pauses mid-street to watch as he makes rapidly for her car, taut and capable, no motion wasted. Purrs in the back of her throat as she imagines him in uniform.

A purr that turns into a shriek as Rooney bursts from the front door, trailing the carpet like a bungee-cord-fastened cape. He levels his sawed-off weapon of choice as Logan scrambles to start the car.

“GO!” he yells, cracking his window, as a bullet glances off the fender and Rooney runs into the yard, accompanied by a crescendo of distant barks. Veronica does—straight for Rooney, engine roaring. The guy leaps backwards to avoid her fender, falling once again onto his butt; Veronica squeals down the street after the Saturn, ignoring stop signs completely.

They race at high speed through the neighborhood to the darkened taqueria, just in case Rooney has non-foot-powered transportation. Pull over beneath a brace of trees beside a dark and empty construction dumpster, kill the engines fast.

“Jesus!” Logan mutters, flinging his car door open, then hers. He climbs in beside her and pulls her into his arms. “Are you okay? God, I thought he’d jump onto your hood before you could hit him, and shoot you in the face!”

“You’re the one who got kicked,” she says, smoothing palms over his genuinely-amazing torso, lifting his shirt to survey the large and blossoming bruise. “He was pretty out of it, but he’s huge. Ribs okay?”

“They don’t hurt enough to be broken.” He looks down at her hands, then up beneath his lashes, the intensity in his dark eyes dialed to eleven. “But by all means, feel free to keep patting.”

She smiles, lifting the shirt farther, and he obligingly reaches behind him to grab a fistful and yank it off. With one finger she traces down his midline, between his abs (God BLESS the US Navy) while his breath gets faster, lighter. Anticipatory.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a quarter handy, would you?” she asks, tilting her head and smiling in a way he REALLY seems to like.

“Why?” His smile deepens, takes on a naughty cast. “You want to bribe me to do something?”

She kneels up to kiss him, pushing her hands into his pants--he breathes out in excited surprise. His mouth tastes clean and slightly salty, desire’s newest flavor. He cradles her face and kisses more deeply as she strokes and fondles, unbuttoning his fly to make room.

“God,” he says, pushing her back against the door, tugging shirt/sweater/bra off one shoulder, then the other, so all the fabric wads around her waist. Nips at a spot below her ear that makes her shiver all over, then smiles and sucks. “You remember the part about those months at sea, right? Because hot-blonde-delivered handjobs in public parking lots, while jacked up on adrenaline, do not lend themselves to endurance.”

“Then I guess you’d better make the few minutes we have count,” she says, kicking off her shoes, and shoving his jeans past his (miracle of cross-training) ass. Returns to her task with a vengeance while he groans, undulating into her hands, and yanks open the button of her jeans.

“I would pay a MILLION dollars for a big back seat right now,” he mutters, managing, with admirable dexterity, to strip her without disengaging. “But failing that…”

He hoists her—she has to let his cock go and cling—and spins as he extracts her from the car; the sweater he grabs from the seat flares out as they twirl. With a flourish worthy of a stage magician, he spreads it across the hood, sets her atop. Curls his hands around her knees and stands there smiling, looking like an x-rated superhero as he weighs lascivious alternatives.

Deliberately, he pushes her thighs back slowly until they’re flush with her abdomen, then kneels on the fender to close his mouth over her mons.

She laughs in surprise, watching his lids flutter shut, ardent, but the giggles turn to gasps, because he is not kidding around--and if they gave out PHD’s in this activity, he would have seven. He savors each lick like she’s made of candy, tracing experimentally down the crease of her ass with his thumb; and, when liquid heat gushes through her, begins a feather-light stroking. Her whole focus becomes the places they touch. With a moan, she comes harder than she ever has in her life.

“That’s better,” he says, straightening. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, while she stares at rain clouds scudding across the sky and tries to breathe. “Equality, Veronica. It’s a thing. Get with the twenty-first century and claim your slice of pie.”

He crosses out of view, back to the car; returns with a condom he presses into her limp palm, curling her fingers around. “This has been a fantasy of mine since I got my driver’s license,” he confides, surveying her smugly, hands on hips. “I don’t even care if we get arrested, PLEASE say yes.”

She manages to sit up, ripping the packet open…he’s going to lose his mind twice as hard as she just did, equality be damned. He threads fingers through her hair, stroking her temples with his thumbs, then kisses her. Gentle and slow, as if they’re not in a parking lot in DAYLIGHT, as if they’ve got hours and hours he plans to put to good use.

Picking up her foot, he runs knuckles over her arch, kisses it--his eyes go half-lidded with pleasure as she strokes, then suits him up. He sets her ankle on his shoulder, then leans palms-flat on the hood to crawl over her; grasps her thigh for leverage and eases inside.

Veronica’s mouth falls open because he feels even bigger than he looks, vibrator-fantasy-under-the-covers big-- it honestly seems like overkill, considering his manifold attractions. He slides incrementally out, surges back deeper, and she says, “I’m going to…” then comes again, so hard the blood rushing from her brain makes her dizzy.

“Wow,” he says softly, and when she pries her eyes open he’s watching her face with fascination; fucking her slowly and with devastating attention to detail while she shivers and clutches and falls apart. “Old fetishes don’t hold a candle to car-hood sex with you. This is...perfect.”

She lets the lust take her as he speeds up and then comes, with a grunt just shy of silence, large body tensing and slumping. They lie there breathing. In the distance, a horn honks and an engine revs in response—Veronica rhythmically strokes his sweat-slicked back.

Then he levers onto his elbows and floors her with a crooked half-grin, which makes a half-parenthesis appear at one corner of his mouth. “I’m standing on gravel and I need to lose the condom. But while I’ve got your full attention…wanna be my girlfriend?”

She laughs, carding through his messy, sweaty hair, and says, “Will you buy me a corsage? Maybe take me to prom?”

“Well that’s another situation where we might conceivably get arrested, but sure.” He presses his forehead to hers, then kisses the tip of her nose, before hopping up and offering a hand.

“Logan,” she says, while he disposes of the rubber, then walks gingerly around the car to open her door, “we just did it in, or rather on, Dick Casablancas’ car, after tying a guy up and STEALING it. I figure all that extreme bonding should have made my interest clear.”

“Ah, but we still haven’t tried the part where I show up at your office with a VERY SERIOUS problem,” he says, rummaging on the floor for her clothes, laying them across the seat. He returns to pick her up and deposit her safely inside. “It will involve dinner, and possibly dancing, and DEFINITELY a little black dress I’ll strip you out of, once you meet the come-hither-glance quota.” He circles the trunk, retrieves and dons his jeans, watching her intently while he buttons. “What do you say? Too chicken?”

“Have you EVER known me to lack nerve?” She turns her bra right-side-out and shrugs into it.

His grin blossoms, white-star-bright, and he pulls his t-shirt carelessly on backwards. “Hmmm, that would be a no.”

“Let’s lock up the stolen property at my place,” she says. “And take a long, hot shower. Then we can play detective and homme fatale all you want, and I’ll even guarantee a happy ending.”

“I like the way you think.” He helps her wiggle into her underwear and steals a kiss. “I have a feeling this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

“Well if not,” she says, tracing his eyebrow with one finger, “we’ll always have the parking lot.”

He grins, holding up the keys to her Saturn. “Race you? That is, if you feel like telling me where you live?”

“You know the new condos on Loma Vista?” she asks, and he nods. “Loser has to lean against the cold bathroom tile.”

He makes to hand her fob over, but she shakes her head, points at the Saturn and winks. Then guns the engine as he crosses the lot to her car.


End file.
